Bookends
by ForeverHester
Summary: "Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly? How terribly strange to be 70." She hasn't seen him in nearly 20 years, yet she knows his face as well as she knows her own.


**Bookends**

This one-shot was inspired by Simon & Garfunkel's "Old Friends/Bookends Theme." You can listen (and see the lyrics) here:

.com/watch/?v=-o0dnVyb7g

My brother wrote the poem contained herein for my husband and I. It is his original work.

* * *

Olivia pulls the tie to her coat as tightly as she can, barreling against the cold New York wind that seems to grow in intensity each year. It's an overcast morning, and she knows it's going to be one of those winters where New Yorkers probably won't see the sun for months. She thinks about the appropriateness of it all. The coming and going of seasons is something of which she is acutely aware. She has always welcomed the cleansing winter brings, equally grateful for the rebirth of spring. This year, however - this year is entirely different.

On this blistery morning, she is taking note of ever facet of her journey. Because she has made this trek hundreds of times, the travel to her destination is usually done on autopilot. Nearly every Sunday morning, book in-hand, Olivia catches the train to 190th Street, taking a second one to 191st Street. From there, it's just a short walk to Fort Tryon Park.

When she had first decided to commune more with nature, she had ventured every weekend to Central Park, where she would sit for hours on a bench near the zoo reading and watching the children play. One week, her friend Sara had invited her for a picnic at Fort Tryon Park in Upper Manhattan, citing the spectacular view of the Hudson River and Palisades State Park - as well easy access to the lush Heather Garden - as being far superior to the offerings of Central Park. When Sara apologetically cancelled their date the day before, Olivia had decided to go anyway. She hadn't been to Fort Tryon in years and had been looking forward to the visit.

She had awakened before sunrise that day, packed a bag with some snacks, bottled water, and her cell phone, tucked _Love in the Time of Cholera_ under her arm, and headed out into the early May morning. It was 8:00 am by the time she arrived at the park, and she immediately set foot towards Heather Garden. It was her favorite place at Fort Tyron, and she knew now that it was spring, the azaleas, tulips, and oriental poppies flowers would be in full bloom. She also knew she could find a comfortable bench shaded by an elm tree, inviting her to sit and stay a while.

Despite the fact that she had spent her whole life in New York City, Olivia never stopped marveling at the endless treasures contained within. This morning was no exception. She took a deep breath, allowing the fresh morning air to permeate her lungs, closed her eyes, and silently thanked Rockefeller for giving her yet another beautiful place to come and be still.

A place to rest and to find peace.

This early on a Sunday, the garden was a quiet place indeed. It would be at least a few hours before other visitors found their way here, obstructing her pristine view and disturbing her uninterrupted oneness with the garden.

She continued walking down the empty, slightly worn path, looking ahead until an old wooden sign came into view. Realizing she had forgotten about it, she stepped closer for a better view, reading its inscription aloud:

_Let no one say, and _

_say it to your shame,_

_that all—_

Suddenly, she heard a male voice behind her complete the poem:

_was beauty here,_

_until you came._

Olivia whipped around, her heart racing and adrenaline surging in anticipation of fighting or running. She hadn't heard anyone approach at all, yet suddenly there he was. It had been years – nearly 20 years – since she had last seen him, but he was unmistakable. She still knew his face as well as her own.

They stared at each other, this man and she, in absolute silence, unmoving, for a moment that seemed to last an eternity. His eyes were just as blue as she remembered, and she thought they looked even more pronounced now that his skin was a bit paler, his hair more sparse and a lot lighter.

He, in turn, looked at her intently, so intently she was sure she felt the gaze pierce through her body. He was studying her, almost as if counting the soft lines adorning her still beautiful face. He noticed the grayish, slightly thinner hair that was cut into a neat bob just below her chin. She wore glasses now, and he saw that behind them, she still wore eye shadow, a slightly shimmery kind that sparkled in the early morning sunlight.

It wasn't long before they were breathing in time with each other. She wanted to say something but found herself rendered mute. She felt her faculties leave her body, and she told herself to get it together. She had been in shock before, and knew this was what it felt like.

Through it all, he just kept looking at her, staring as though he has never seen her before.

She finally found her voice, and she was the first to speak.

"Elliot-"

That was all she got out before he stepped closer and pulled her into him. He hugged her tightly, breathing into her hair and trembling slightly. Without hesitating, she returned the gesture in kind, thinking to herself that perhaps she was dreaming. But his embrace and his scent, the very presence of him, told her she was very much awake. She held on tightly and for a long time, and she could tell he had no intention of letting her go either.

"Elliot," she finally spoke quietly into his chest. "I, I mean, what…"

"Please, Olivia," he finally said, breaking his silence. "Please, don't let go just yet."

She didn't let go.

Finally after several minutes, he slowly released his hold on her and stepped away, creating enough distance so that they could see each other face to face.

Suddenly a slight breeze, as if on cue, swept through the garden, carrying with it the smell of Earth and newness. It blew a few strands of hair into Olivia's face, and as she went to tuck them behind her ear, Elliot reached up and completed the task for her. Running the back of his fingers gently across her jawline, he spoke softly. "You are just as beautiful as I remember."

Olivia chuckled, "Well, I am certainly older than you remember."

As the reality of the situation sunk in, Olivia found herself flooded with questions she wanted to ask Elliot. It had been so long since she had seen him last. Until this, she had known nothing of him except that he was alive and that he had eventually purchased a house in New Jersey, about 30 minutes outside of the city.

That wasn't much to know about a person who you thought about every day of your life, Olivia mused to herself.

"I can't believe you're here, Olivia. This almost seems like - like…," Elliot's voice trailed off.

"Like a dream?" she offered.

"Yes," he replied.

"I was making my way to that bench over there. Sit and chat a spell?" Olivia asked.

Elliot nodded in agreement, and the old friends walked side by side to the weathered bench. She felt him looking at her still, and she thought that was okay because she so badly wanted to stare at him too. She wanted this image of him imprinted in her memory forever.

The bench was still slightly moist from the pre-dawn rain, but neither of them minded. They sat, sharing the lone bench, and Olivia tempered her thoughts, realizing there would be time for her questions, time for his answers.

"This was one of Elizabeth's favorite places," Elliot finally said. "She wrote about it a lot in her poetry."

Olivia nodded. "I know. I have read all her works, Elliot. She's incredibly talented."

The last part of her response trailed off as she registered Elliot's choice of words. "This _was _Elizabeth's favorite place." At that moment, she knew. She knew why he was here.

He couldn't look at her then. He leaned over, hands folded, and stared at the ground.

"I never thought I would be burying my own child. I can't. I'm not -– I'm not strong enough for this," Elliot rambled, speaking to Olivia as if he had just seen her yesterday.

She moved closer and reached out to him, covering his hand with hers. "I'm -– I'm so sorry, Elliot. I had no idea," she said softly, fighting to contain the tears she felt welling up. Tears for him. Tears for Elizabeth. Tears for herself.

It was then that he started to cry. It wasn't a whimper, contained and cautious, or a bellowing cry. It was soul draining, a cry of loss and helplessness. Of being broken.

"She fought hard, but it was just too much, Liv. Too much. She asked me, she asked me to let her go. It took me too long. She was so sick, very sick, and I couldn't let go," he continued, desperately.

Olivia rested her hand just above Elliot's lower back, and together they sat for a long while. He talked and cried and she listened. And they both mourned Elizabeth.

Elliot finally looked down at his watch, his face registering worry. "I should get back," he said. "They'll be wondering where I went. She died at 6 a.m. and I just left. I couldn't stay there. I just took off. They'll be looking for me."

"Yes, yes, of course," Olivia said.

Elliot stood slowly and turned to face her. "This was…it was good to see you, Olivia," he stammered.

"You too, Elliot. I'm so sorry about Lizzie. I'm sorry too…for you," Olivia responded.

He nodded. "Thanks for this, for sitting with me."

She watched him slowly walk away, walk out of her life again just as quickly as he had walked back in.

Suddenly, he stopped and took a few steps towards her.

"Liv," he asked. "Think you'll be here next Sunday?"

"Yes, I think I might be," she said, smiling at him.

He managed a slight smile for her too.

* * *

That chance encounter had been more than 7 years ago.

They had sat on that park bench for a few hours nearly every Sunday for the past seven and a half years. Sometimes one or the other didn't show, due to illness or weather, but the next week they were always back together. They talked a little, shared some food, read. Sometimes they didn't really have much to say and they just sat next to each other, quietly and comfortably.

Friends they were - old friends, sitting on a park bench. Like bookends.

They always went to their own homes, and they never saw each other or spoke to each other outside of the park. Neither of them ever brought up the past unless it was to remember something good. They would share stories, give little anecdotes about their week. Elliot spoke about his children and grandchildren, and Olivia about her niece and nephew and their children. She would occasionally read Elizabeth's poetry. Elliot would sometimes get misty-eyed, but mostly he puffed up with pride and joked about raising a literary genius.

Olivia and Elliot both agreed their favorite poem was "A Sister's Offering," which Elizabeth had written in honor of her twin brother Richard's 10-year wedding anniversary to Stella, whom all the Stabler's adored. Elliot has shown Olivia a photo of her, and Olivia could see how much he had come to cherish his daughter-in-law.

"A Sister's Offering," Olivia read, "by Elizabeth Stabler.

For Richard and Stella

_Leaves rustle in the graying light_

_Stirred slightly by a struggling breeze_

_While the twinkle of chimes emerges _

_From the jet engine's drowning flight._

_Banzai brushes my leg desultorily,_

_And Brahms' adagio bumps up in my mind_

_Against Eleanor in her French medieval court._

_Such snippets do not, however, define _

_A life, not even a life like mine._

_They are mere moments spread out _

_In the vastness of space and time._

_Meaningless in themselves, connected_

_Only by the meanderings of this pen,_

_As it traces these words for you indelible._

_For I am filled and they are bound_

_By the rich, spacious desire to share with you_

_The wonder, the deep gratitude that brightens _

_The air because you are here, my brother,_

_My sister, breathing here, crying,_

_Sleeping, working, yelling, eating, growing old_

_Together in each other's hearts and in mine._

_I give a thousand thanks for you both,_

_My family, my friends, my dear family and friends."_

They both loved that poem, and they read it over and over. Elliot thought the sound of Olivia's voice as she read it was like a song, and he laughed each time because she still insisted on reading it from the book even though she had memorized it long ago. For her part, Olivia had forever burned into her memory the image of the way Elliot looked when she read it.

Seven and a half years. It had been more than seven years since they had re-entered each other's lives.

Today, on this cold winter morning, she is making her last Sunday trip to see Elliot. She has struggled for months about when she should tell him, when the right time was for the last visit. Each week, she would tell herself this would be it, but when the time came, she couldn't bring herself to do it. She couldn't bring herself to say goodbye.

Truth is, she doesn't want to hear _him_ say goodbye.

She knows, however, that she can't hide it from him any longer. The effects of the cancer are starting to physically manifest themselves, and she has already dropped 15 lbs. She doesn't want him to see her get too ill. She doesn't want him to remember her like that.

She swallows back the huge lump forming in her throat as their park bench comes into view. He is already sitting there, in his large overcoat, watching the leaves blow in the wind. She is observing him from a distance as he follows the meanderings of a single leaf. He is studying it intently, his gaze tracing it until it lands softly on the top of his boot. He reaches down and picks it up, and as she approaches, he holds it out to her.

"Here," he says. "Caught it just for you."

"Why thank you, kind sir," she replies, taking it from his hands and gingerly placing it in between the pages of her book.

That last morning goes very much like all the other visits. It is filled mostly by silence, peppered with little anecdotes or observations.

"I say a prayer for you every night," Olivia says randomly.

"Olivia Benson, you pray?" he responds, feigning incredulity.

"I do, Elliot, yes. And try not to pass out, but I even attend mass every now and then," she retorts back, not missing a beat.

"Huh. In-ter-es-ting," he says, drawing out the last word for emphasis. "Feeling your own mortality, are you?"

When she doesn't respond, she feels him turn towards her. "Olivia," he says playfully, "I'm just kidding. Don't pay attention to the stupid things I say. It's this old, insensitive brain. I can't help it sometimes."

Still, she doesn't say anything. And now she's silently cursing herself because she has prepared for this. She has run through all the possible scenarios in her head, and she is prepared, damn it. She is prepared for this.

_What I fool I am_, she thinks to herself, weakly. How could she think she would ever be ready for this?

"Olivia, what's wrong?" Elliot asks.

"This is the last Sunday I can come here, Elliot," she says softly.

"Okay," he answers, not quite understanding. "Okay, well, want to meet somewhere else? If this is too far for you to come each week, we can meet somewhere closer to you."

_It's never too far to travel to you, Elliot_, Olivia thinks to herself. But she doesn't say it out loud, and she knows that months later, when she is taking her last breaths, that she will regret not telling him this. Not telling him everything. Not telling him that she would have given up everything, traveled to the edges of the universe and back for him.

"No, Elliot," she shakes her head. "This is the last Sunday I can see you. I - I have to go away."

"Where are you going?" he asks. He's finally getting it. She can see the fear in his eyes, and she realizes she doesn't want to draw this out anymore than she has to.

"I'm sick, Elliot," she tells him, calmly. "I'm sick and I'm not going to get better. So I can't come here anymore. I can't come anymore -– to you."

"Liv, what's - I mean, I'll come to you. Wherever you are, I'll come to you," he says, his desperation increasing.

"No," Olivia answers, more sternly than she means to. "No, Elliot, you can't. I've thought about this a lot. I should have told you earlier, and I'm sorry for that."

"Olivia, I can help you. I can take care of you," he is grasping, grasping but there is nothing to hold on to.

"You can't take care of me, Elliot. That's not how this is. That's not," she shakes her head, "its not what we are. Don't fight me on this. El, please don't make this any harder than it already is." She is pleading with him now and he can do nothing but curse the wind.

"God damn it all to hell," he shouts angrily, out loud, but its not directed at her and she knows it.

He looks at her then, his eyes so filled with love and loss that she can barely stand it, and she can't help but cry now. He slides over so they are sitting hip to hip, and he takes her into his arms and cradles her. They both sit together, these winter companions, and he rocks her back and forth.

He holds her as though he has held her his entire life. He holds her as though she isn't a person separate from him but rather a part of him.

"Where are you going?" he asks softly.

"I've rented a little place on the Jersey Shore. I want to be near the water," she answers.

"But not too far from home," he finishes.

She nods. _And not too far from you_, she thinks. Another thing she should tell him but doesn't.

They stay on that bench a long time. They sit while passerbys come and go. They sit through the beginnings of a snowfall, through wind gusts that are so bitter, they make it hard for them to catch their breath. They sit when the snow stops falling and when it starts back up again.

They sit for hours, trying to make up for the years they have lost, trying to store years they'll never have.

"I don't want to let you go," Elliot whispers in her ear, his tears flowing freely now.

"I know," she replies. Because she does know.

Bodies and hearts aching, they both know it's time, but its Olivia who is the one to pull away.

"Elliot, I –- we need to go. We can't sit here forever," she says.

He nods slowly, getting up and standing before her, consuming her space. Consuming her. He reaches out and gently tucks her hair behind her left ear, just as he had done that fateful day in May more than seven years ago.

"You, Olivia Benson, are the most amazing woman I have ever known," he says, wiping the tears from her cheek.

"And you, Elliot Stabler, are my heart," she says in return.

She leans in then and places a gentle kiss on his lips. When she pulls away, she sees him suck in air, preparing to speak; but before he can, she puts her right index finger to his mouth and says, softly, "Shh. I know Elliot. It's always been you."

With those last words, she turns and walks away, leaving him standing near the bench they shared, watching as she disappears, almost like a spirit, into the late Manhattan winter afternoon.

"I love you, Olivia," Elliot says out loud, after he can no longer make out her form in the distance. After a few minutes, he starts to make his way out of the garden.

And to this day he doesn't know if he imagined what he saw next, but when he turned back to look one last time at their park bench, he could've sworn he saw them both, 35 years younger, sitting side by side on that bench.

* * *

**Epilogue**

It was a perfectly clear afternoon in May when Elliot received it. He knew what it was as soon as he saw it. He put it in his pocket and made the drive to Heather Garden. Sitting on their park bench, he slowly reached for the note. He stared at her handwriting for a few minutes, tracing the letters with his fingers. The tears stung his eyes as he slowly opened it.

_Know that I am always with you, beside you on that park bench. And know that for me, every day - every moment - is now Sunday morning. I give "a thousand thanks" for you, Elliot._

_Love ever, Olivia_


End file.
